Wolfblade

by Jennifer Fallon

  “That’s not a bad quality in a prince, Lirena,” Marla pointed out.

  “No, but it’s going to make him a right pain in the buttocks until he grows into his crown,” the old nurse declared knowingly. “Just you wait and see.”

  chapter 90

  T

  he new High Arrion of the Sorcerers’ Collective, Alija Eaglespike, was many things, but patient had not always been one of them. It had been a hard lesson, learning to wait for what she wanted.

  But learn she had—the hard way—that, in the end, those who endured won the prize as often as those who fought for it.

  When her plans for Barnardo to take the throne had been so comprehensively quashed by Laran Krakenshield and his cohorts, Alija had known the only choice she had was to regroup. Despite thinking it was disastrous at the time, Laran Krakenshield’s coup had been a blessing in disguise. Things were turning out even better than she could have hoped, and the best part was, unlike her last unsuccessful bid for power, this time nobody was even aware she was involved.

  She had attended the wedding of Marla and Nash Hawksword in Krakandar, thinking nobody had any concept of what this seemingly innocuous union meant. Marla was deliriously happy. Even without touching her mind, Alija could tell that from across the room. Her love for Nash hadn’t faded in the slightest in the years she’d been married to Laran, and the fact that she was now being allowed to marry the love of her life meant the young woman positively glowed with contentment. Alija was happy for her. She had no personal gripe against Marla and was glad the girl would have a chance to be with the man she loved. It was more than Alija had ever had.

  And she was pregnant; that had been the best news of all. Nash had let it slip after they returned from Bordertown and his happiness was almost equal to Marla’s, although for quite different reasons.

  Poor Marla, Alija remembered thinking at the time, feeling genuinely sorry for the girl. You really have no idea, do you?

  Alija had been having an affair with Nash even then. They had a lot in common, she and Nash. They both believed they should be wielding power. They both had to wait for their chance. They were both impatient. It had been surprisingly easy to make Nash see the opportunity within his grasp. He had always known that Marla liked him, although, until Alija brought it to his attention, Nash had no idea the girl was in love with him. The idea amused him at first. And then he began to see the possibilities.

  After that, there was no stopping him.

  Nashan Hawksword was a common enough phenomenon among the sons of Hythria. Born when his father was barely twenty, Nash was over thirty now, with a hale and hearty father not yet fifty years old, who showed no signs of slowing down. Unless killed in battle or by accident, Charel was likely to live a good while yet and Nash might be middle-aged or older before he got to inherit Elasapine. It was an awkward situation for an ambitious man who loved his father and wished him no harm.

  But married to the sister of the High Prince, Nash’s horizons had suddenly been broadened. Why hunger after a province when a chance for the whole country lay within your grasp?

  Laran’s death in a border raid had been a boon Alija couldn’t have planned better if she’d tried. To have Marla pregnant and married to Nash so quickly was something neither of them had imagined possible. It was really only a matter of time after that. Nash’s son was almost two, having weathered the first, and most dangerous, year of his life. Any time now they could kill Damin and replace him with Nash’s son. Both children were the fruit of Marla Wolfblade, after all. Once Damin was dead, Lernen would have no choice but to adopt his only other nephew, Narvell Hawksword, as his heir.

  It didn’t bother Alija unduly that the first attack on Damin had failed. Even surrounded by guards, nobody could protect Damin from Nash, or would suspect his beloved stepfather was responsible. When she seriously wanted to remove him, it would be easy enough to poison the child. This attack had been little more than a feint, really. Just testing Nash’s resolve. While the whole of Greenharbour was up in arms about the threat to the High Prince’s heir, Kagan had quietly slipped away and Alija had been able to step immediately into his position; the need was so urgent to replace him at such a critical time, that nobody had thought to object.

  And now . . . well, it was quite straightforward, really. Once Damin was gone and his brother named heir, the High Prince would die—an illness would be easy enough to arrange. Foxglove was such a wonderfully virulent poison. And she knew it worked. One only had to look at Kagan to see how effective its leaves were. Young Narvell would become High Prince with his father, Nashan Hawksword, as his regent—conditional, of course, on Alija’s eldest son, Cyrus Eaglespike, being named as Narvell’s successor. Then it was just a matter of time. Nash could rule in his son’s name until Cyrus was old enough to rule in his own right. At that time, she could remove Narvell in some terrible and tragic accident, and her son would become High Prince.

  It was a roundabout route, she thought, opening the door to her study, but an effective one. She’d learned her lesson the last time—

  Alija stopped just inside the door and looked around the room in shock. It was a shambles. The drawers of her desk had been upturned, their contents scattered on the floor. The shelves on her left had been emptied onto the floor as well, the pictures torn from the walls, the silk screens slashed to ribbons.

  But the worst devastation was to the lacquered cabinet by the window. The doors were wide open, the magical locks gone, and the contents nothing more than a heap of smoking ash.

  Then she noticed the man sitting at her desk. He was very tall, dressed in black leathers, with dark hair and a smug look on his face. He was leaning back in her chair, his boots resting on the desk’s polished surface. Angrily, she reached for her power, drawing every scrap she could handle, and hurled a blast at the presumptuous stranger, thinking the fool had no concept of who he was dealing with.

  But her angry blast dissipated into nothing. Shocked beyond words, it was then that she noticed the stranger’s eyes were black. Totally black. There was no white in them at all.

  “Lady Eaglespike, I presume?” the man said, with the faintest hint of a sneer.

  “Who are you?” she hissed, looking around for a weapon. There was nothing nearby. The best she could hope for was to use some of the scattered debris as missiles, but when she reached for her power again, she couldn’t find it. She could feel it, just out of reach, but there was something holding her back. The stranger looked amused as he felt her struggling against the invisible barrier.

  “My official title among the Harshini is Lord Brakandaran té Cam,” he announced calmly, picking up a stick of sealing wax from the desk and turning it over curiously in his hands. “You might know of me by my other name, though. Brakandaran the Halfbreed?”

  “Brakandaran is a legend!” she spat at him.

  He smiled. “Why, thank you, my lady. I like to think so.”

  “Who are you really? How did you get in here? How did you . . .” She stared at the cabinet and then looked at the man who claimed to be the Halfbreed. Perhaps he was. She couldn’t imagine anybody else being able to break the wards on the cabinet.

  “What do you want?” she asked, a little more cautiously.

  The Halfbreed made a great show of thinking about it before he replied. “Hmmm . . . what do I want . . . world peace . . . a nice little place in the countryside, perhaps . . . a tavern where the beer is free . . .”

  “What do you want of me?” she demanded angrily.

  “Ah, now that’s a little more complicated. You’ve been a very naughty girl, Alija.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He tossed the stick of wax onto the desk and stared at her. “You hurt a friend of mine, lady. Very badly. And you did it using Harshini magic. I take a rather dim view of that.”

  He knows about Kagan. Alija desperately wanted to glance over her shoulder to check the distance to the door, but realised it was an idle hope. If t
his really was the Halfbreed, she would have no hope of making it out of the room before he caught her. He could probably flay her alive with a thought. She remained silent, just hoping he hadn’t tried reading her mind.

  “And now you’re High Arrion, I hear.”

  “I deserve to be High Arrion,” she informed him, sure of that, at least. “I’m the only one in the whole damn Sorcerers’ Collective with any sort of real power. The rest of them are just faking it.”

  “There was another contender,” Brak reminded her. “Until you tried to kill him.”

  “Who?” she scoffed. “There’s not been anybody since—” Alija stared at him in shock. “That’s your friend? Wrayan Lighifinger?” The relief she felt was indescribable. He didn’t know about Kagan. He knew about Wrayan, but he had no idea she’d killed the High Arrion. She might even survive this confrontation.

  Brakandaran was not looking pleased, however. “I don’t like people who hurt my friends.”

  “He hurt my slave.”

  “You tried to kill him. I’m not sure if that lesson escaped you at all during your long apprenticeship, my lady, but the Harshini frown upon that sort of thing.”

  “The Harshini are gone.”

  “Are they?” he asked pointedly.

  “Is that why you’re here? To kill me?”

  Brakandaran smiled. “Despite what you may have heard about me, Alija, I actually don’t go around killing people without a good reason. As it is, Wrayan survived your attempt to cauterise the inside of his skull, and he’s none the worse for it, so I’m going to let you off with a warning—this time.”

  “Wrayan is alive? Where is he?”

  “Closer than you think. But entirely out of your reach,” the Halfbreed replied cryptically. “He’s no concern of yours any longer. Wrayan won’t be back to bother your ambitions. The gods have another fate in mind for him.”

  “What’s going to happen to me?”

  “Not a thing,” Brakandaran said. “Provided you behave yourself and I don’t catch you using any more Harshini enhancement spells.”

  Her eyes strayed to the cabinet in dismay. Just a smoking pile of ashes.

  “And I don’t think that’s going to be a problem any more, is it, Alija?” he asked confidently, seeing the direction of her gaze.

  Alija wanted to weep at the loss of the contents of that cabinet. “Those scrolls were irreplaceable!”

  “For you, perhaps,” he shrugged. “I can get copies any time I want.”

  He swung his feet to the floor and stood up. He was very tall. Dressed in his dark leathers, he really was as impressive as the legends claimed. For a fleeting moment, Alija’s fear waned and she thought of the possibilities.

  What could I achieve with a man like Brakandaran at my side?

  She began to get an idea when he held out his arm and she found herself walking towards him, even though she desperately tried to resist him. He moved around the desk to meet her, forcing her across the room until they were standing toe to toe.

  The Halfbreed leaned forward until his lips hovered beside her ear and she could feel his hot breath on her skin. “Now, I’m going to tell you this just once, Alija,” he said softly, silkily, in a voice that sent a shiver of fear down her spine, “so listen, and listen well. If I ever have to come back here and scold you again for misusing the gift the gods have given you, trust me, you will regret it.” He leaned back and smiled at her then and Alija thought her life was about to end. Brakandaran’s smile wasn’t the warm smile of a benign Harshini. It was the cold-blooded smile of a killer. “Do we understand each other?”

  Alija nodded dumbly, too frightened to speak. This close, she could feel the power he commanded, like the heat from a forge. It was more than she believed possible. More than she had drawn to herself with the enhancement spell. More than the raw power she had felt in Wrayan. It was more than she had imagined one person could wield. It was terrifying.

  And then he let her go with a careless flick of his wrist and she collapsed onto the rug, sobbing with fear. It took her a few minutes before she was able to think again, to get the surge of terror under control. Cautiously, she opened her eyes and looked up at him, only to discover she was alone in the ruined study.

  Brakandaran the Halfbreed was gone.

  chapter 91

  S

  everal days later, long after civilised people were abed, Marla received a visitor. The man was in early middle age, dark-haired and nondescript, except for his eyes which seemed to take in everything at once. On his left hand he wore the raven ring of the Assassins’ Guild. He didn’t offer her a name, but she knew who he was and was expecting him. She opened the door to him herself, having dismissed the guards and the slaves in preparation for this appointment.

  Marla hardened her heart as the man bowed to her, his features shadowed by the single candle she had lit in the main reception room.

  “Well?” she asked, surprised her voice wasn’t trembling.

  “It is done, your highness.”

  “How?”

  “Are you certain you want the details, your highness?”

  Marla squared her shoulders grimly. “If I have the courage to order this thing, sir, I believe I should have the courage to hear how it was done.”

  The man nodded his agreement. “As you wish.”

  “Will it look like an accident?”

  “A tragic accident, your highness.”

  “Where did it happen?”

  “In the slave quarter. Your husband frequented some of the brothels there with his friends on a fairly regular basis.”

  Marla wasn’t surprised. Not all households kept court’esa. Those lords and ladies who liked a bit of variety often preferred to visit Greenharbour’s countless brothels rather than go to the expense of purchasing their own court’esa and then having to buy a new one when they tired of them. “How did you know that?”

  “It’s our job to know these things, your highness.”

  “What happened?” she asked, determined to hear this through. Marla wasn’t being morbid. She had to know she had the stomach for what lay ahead, and if she couldn’t bear the details of her first unpalatable act, then she was never going to be able to make the everyday decisions necessary to rule Hythria the way it needed to be ruled—ruthlessly and without fear.

  “He spent some time with a court’esa named Lora. She’s serviced him before. During the evening, she offered him wine, which he drank. It was laced with a soporific.”

  “You drugged him?”

  “He would have struggled otherwise, your highness, and you specifically requested we leave no marks of violence upon his body.”

  “I also told you I didn’t want him poisoned.”

  “And he wasn’t, your highness. The wine merely made him sleepy. After he was finished with the court’esa, she suggested he bathe before coming home, an offer he accepted. Whilst in the tub, it appears Lord Hawksword fell asleep and tragically slid beneath the water. The court’esa will raise the alarm in an hour or so.”

  I feel nothing, Marla thought, a little surprised. No guilt. No grief. Not even relief. “You’ve done well.”

  “We aim to please, your highness.”

  “How many people know of this transaction?”

  “Only you, me and the court’esa who performed the task, your highness. Only I know that it was you who arranged the contract.”

  “And what will it cost to ensure your silence?”

  “One of your sons, your highness.”

  Marla stared at him in shock. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m sorry,” the man replied, “that came out all wrong. I don’t mean the sons you have now, my lady. Both your sons are heirs to empires that far outweigh the benefits of my profession. But you’re young and have just become a widow. You’ll marry again. You’ll have more children, step-children perhaps, even fosterlings. I want one of them. To train as an apprentice, nothing more sinister.”

  “Why?”
>
  “Because I like the idea of having someone in the Guild with the ear of the High Prince, your highness.”

  Marla thought about it for a moment and then nodded. “Very well,” she agreed, thinking it was a deal she could delay indefinitely. For that matter, she may never even have another son.

  The assassin bowed and smiled at her. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, your highness.”

  Marla showed him out herself, locked the door and then climbed the stairs slowly. She didn’t go straight to her room. Instead, she walked down the hall a little way, nodded a greeting to the guards standing outside the children’s room as she let herself in. There were guards inside, too, silent and alert, watching over her sleeping children. She checked on each one of them herself, guided by nothing more than the starlight coming in from the open window where yet another silent guard stood to attention.

  Damin slept on his back, sprawled across his bed as if trying to claim as much of it as possible. He looked like an angel when he was asleep, a fair-haired vision of sweetness and innocence that was at complete odds with the noisy mischief-maker he could be when he was awake. In the next cot lay Kalan, sleeping on her stomach with her thumb in her mouth, so serene and secure. So unafraid of life she could sleep peacefully in a world where assassins lurked in every corner. In a world where her mother had arranged to have her father killed . . .

  Marla pushed the thought away. Thinking like that would drive her crazy. Beside Kalan in the cot was Narvell, lying in almost the same position as his sister—a mirror image of his twin. A murmur from the last bed in the room caught her attention. She glanced over at Starros, who was curled into a tight ball as if he was cold. Marla moved to his side and gently pulled the light cover over him with a smile and he unconsciously relaxed a little.

  What have I done to you, my darlings? she wondered, glancing at the twins again. Will you be better or worse for never having known your father? Should I have killed him? Or should I have stood by and waited for him to kill your brother?